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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24695728">left-handed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKL/pseuds/AKL'>AKL</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Philosophy, Post-Game, Religious Conflict, bc altaïr's like that, everybody save for altaïr and malik are just mentioned k, templars can suck it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:02:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,097</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24695728</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKL/pseuds/AKL</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a hidden beauty to the desert, Altaïr thinks. Especially now, as the dirt drinks blood like a dying thing, becoming sticky and dark with what might as well be water. This is a merciless place - he has no reservations about that. It’s even more merciless than him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malik Al-Sayf &amp; Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>left-handed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/incalyscent/gifts">incalyscent</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a hidden beauty to the desert, Altaïr thinks. Especially now, as the dirt drinks blood like a dying thing, becoming sticky and dark with what might as well be water. This is a merciless place - he has no reservations about that. It’s even more merciless than him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The hidden blade vanishes like it was never there to begin with, leaving a gap between his fingers and a body slumped across the ground. He steps over the corpse and what few civilians gawk around him jump back and shout as if he could burn them. The sun is hot on his back. So hot, he wonders fleetingly if he could. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ever since the betrayal of Al Mualim, the Templars have grown only more cunning. If they are the snakes trying to trick their way into power, then Altaïr is the mongoose, and he will not rest until each and every one of them have been cut off at the head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a running start toward a wall and with a grunt, scales a few feet of it before wedging his hands against a loose brick. The rhythm of climbing is something he’s never lost. He shimmies to the roof, keeping himself flush with the building before hauling himself on top of it. Somewhere in the city, an eagle cries, and he isn’t sure whether or not his heart could make the same sound. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In his bones, he knows he is afraid of becoming arrogant and prideful again. Of allowing the Piece of Eden to corrupt him, of becoming like the old man. When Al Mualim spared his life, did he already have planned that Altaïr would be dead once the length of his usefulness ran dry? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But these are thoughts he’s worn over and over again, red and raw as a picked scab. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The only way for him to ever find an answer would be to consult the Apple. It’s no surprise the Templars lust so terribly for it, he thinks. They both have the same talent for manipulation. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He leaps over a gap between buildings, and the way it makes his breath hitch comes as unexpected every time. Malik would call him a fool, he’s been doing this since before he could shave, when his body was gangly and awkward and he hadn’t yet killed anyone. That was a long time ago, now. He can’t imagine looking at his hands and thinking them clean. He doesn’t wear scars like jewelry, no matter what the intricacy of his blade might suggest. Every mark he has earned through blood. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Would it be fair to claim he’s given himself two left hands? For him to touch anyone seems an act of sin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He throws himself forward, catching hold of a beam extending between buildings and swinging free for a second before dropping to the ground. The dirt crunches beneath his feet. There’s an ant nest hidden somewhere close if the amount of ants crawling over each other is anything to go by. He can see his horse lipping at a dry mouthful of hay in the shade of an oak a little ways down the road, separated from him by the guards’ checkpoint. Her coat is dappled warm with sunlight, and he’s thankful that unlike her he has a choice when it comes to what color his clothes are. Black in this sun is, more often than not, a death sentence. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Damascus looms behind him. The guards pay him little mind. Ever since Robert de Sablé’s death the Templars’ hold in the Holy Land has weakened, although there are still some loose ends the Brotherhood has been dealing with. Still, less assassinations means less attention called to himself, and it’s for this he’s grateful as the guards let him pass without much of a second glance. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He whistles for the mare once he’s outside the walls, and her head snaps up, ears pointing forward. She trots halfway to him, waiting for him to make it the rest of the journey. He runs his hand along her dark, sunkissed neck, stepping up into the stirrup and throwing his other leg over, picking up the reins and prompting her with the heels of his boots to start moving. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man he’d just killed in Damascus - a Templar. Not one he’d planned to take the life of, not even one he’d planned to meet. They have a way of cropping up where they’re unwanted. Despite that, the information he traded with the Rafik at the bureau has proved worth the trip from Masyaf. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’ll be a long day’s ride until he gets back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The horse’s gait is smoother than what he’s used to. His usual mount, a white Arab, makes quick time but by the end of it Altaïr’s hips are sore enough that he needs to wait a minute or two for the ache to leave before walking on his own. He can only hope when he finally reaches Masyaf he won’t be too tired to make the hike up to the fortress. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been difficult taking charge of the Brotherhood. He stands in the library, in the garden, in the courtyard, and thinks about what was. What could’ve been. Most of all, what is. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he’d first started he’d expected more work to fall on his shoulders. He never realized how dictatorial of a leadership Al Mualim had led. Between him and the other brothers, the load has been light. Just as Malik said to him once - if they share their victories together, then they shall share their failures. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But how much it stung when Altaïr, son of no one, discovered the old man of the mountain’s betrayal. The closest person he’s had to a father. He’d never dared to hope that Al Mualim saw him as a son - a student, and a child, yes, but not a son. It was only because of his skill that Al Mualim took him beneath his wing like he did. He tells himself this too often, he knows, but how is he to justify the heartache he still feels for his ex-master’s actions? How many innocent lives were taken that day? Altaïr doubts he’ll ever truly know. And Malik has told him time and time again that he is a changed man, but how easy could it be to lose himself the way Al Mualim became lost?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yet he holds on to this fear. Because he understands now that it helps keep him human. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The mare stumbles on a rock, pitching forward enough to make him tense and lean back in the saddle. She catches herself, and he relaxes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The land has gone from scrubby and barren to only slightly more lush. The oak trees are spread denser. They’re further north, but only barely. Once he passes the road branching off to Homs he’ll know he’s close. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The few towns he goes through are quiet and milling. The sort of places that a horse galloping past is the first excitement to happen all day, so he doesn’t gallop - he slows her to a trot and avoids making eye contact with the guards. It makes for slow progress, but he’d rather that than risk calling attention to himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As a result the moon is out when he finally reaches Masyaf. He pulls his horse to a stop beside the others, swinging himself off and onto the ground. A sharp pain shoots up one of his legs and he acknowledges he probably strained his ankle at some point in Damascus. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Any news, Grandmaster?” An Assassin standing post beside the wall asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The Templars continue to operate in the shadows,” he replies, exhaustion wearing his voice thin even to his own ears. “I gave more information to the Rafik than I received.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Assassin inclines his head, obviously taking note of Altaïr’s disheveled appearance. “Safety and peace, brother.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“On you as well,” Altaïr returns, turning to begin the steady trek up the mountain. His feet aren’t sore thanks to the mare, but hunger is beginning to make him feel antsy and weak at the edges. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The path is lit dim with torches. The townspeople have all gone inside. It must be close to midnight, he thinks. The air is cool and sweet against his skin, crickets are singing, the few bushes rustle and wave in the calm wind. In the fortress, he knows a bed waits for him, with a bowl of dates and fresh water nearby. For now, he thinks this is the closest he can come to peace. </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sleeps in.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s rare for him to be in a place he feels safe enough to do so, and the journey from Damascus had worn him out more than he’d realized. It’s only the trainer’s yelling out in the courtyard that finally wakes him up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He opens his eyes blearily, taking in the sight of the stone ceiling. His mouth is dry, his legs are stiff, and he only groans a little as he pushes himself to sit up. There’s a jug of water and a small clay bowl on the ground beside him, so it’s with sore, calloused hands that he pours himself a drink. It helps soothe the chap on his lips, but he knows he’ll have to rub them with a fingertip’s worth of honey to get rid of it entirely. He clears his throat and leans back into the pillows, clutching the tiny bowl to his chest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s been grateful to have avoided Abbas since his return, but disappointed that he’s done the same for Malik. He wants to hear Malik’s opinion on some of what’s been bothering him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Altaïr sighs, setting the bowl down and stretching his arms up, satisfied only when he feels an especially tense spot in his back pop. He hadn’t gone into the Grandmaster’s room last night. It had seemed too much, and he didn’t want to be in a room still so haunted by Al Mualim’s memory. Instead he’d snuck into the novice quarters and picked a free spot in the corner. It’s familiar, and at that particular instant he hadn’t wanted to be alone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He is now. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he’s the only one there, so he can guess it’s well past sunrise. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He forces himself to lean forward, plucking his undershirt from the floor and shaking it out to make sure there are no scorpions nesting in it. He tugs it on and does the same for his robes, folded neatly by his feet. He’d stowed his weapons behind the pillows. Well within arm’s reach. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sun is bright enough to make him wince when he walks out into the open. He’s glad he already has the hood drawn up if only to shield his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The trainer goes quiet as he catches sight of him, quick to nod a greeting that Altaïr returns. It is difficult, sometimes, seeing these people and remembering how they had been beneath Al Mualim’s spell. He tries not to think about the brothers he had no choice but to kill. It was cruel of Al Mualim to put him in such a position. It was cruel of Al Mualim to do anything at all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He huffs out a breath and keeps up the pace. If he wants to speak with Malik, he has to find him first. But Altaïr is sure he already knows where he is. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Malik exchanges words like blows. He has always been verbal and passive and more suited to the bureau than the field. He is everything Altaïr is not. For a long time, it had seemed the only thing they had in common was their childhood. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He feels foolish for ever believing that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They have loyalty in common, whether to each other or the Brotherhood it makes little difference now. This, and they’re both referred to as the most dour Assassins of Masyaf when neither of them are supposed to be within hearing range. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a deep breath before going up the stairs; before walking to the table that Al Mualim once would’ve called his own. Malik sits there now. Plain and unassuming, silhouetted in the window, empty sleeve touching the table as he bends over a map - no doubt lost in the complexity of it. Altaïr had asked some weeks ago why he enjoys cartography so much. The only answer he’d been given was that it eases the mind. It was enough.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Malik,” Altaïr says, and the other turns to regard him with a quiet sort of intensity, the same expression he always wears when he’s in the middle of something that demands concentration. Altaïr decides not to beat around the bush. “Do you believe we are as damned as the Templars? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Malik furrows his brow, long used to Altaïr’s bluntness. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Our cause is noble,” he explains, and he only feels a little bit guilty for interrupting Malik to talk about this. “But the means by which we achieve it - are we not the Templars’ opposite, and their exact equal?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Malik sets his pen down with a careful thoughtfulness. The clang of swords outside seems distant, unimportant, all of a sudden. “It is true that we both kill. From an outsider’s perspective it could be said we appear similar. But while we seek freedom, they seek control.” He shrugs. “God does not measure divinity by the nature in our hearts, it is by our actions.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>And so we are equally damned,</span>
  </em>
  <span> goes unspoken, but it’s loud enough in the air that Malik might as well have said it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Altaïr swallows, ducking his face to the ground. His arms feel heavy and dead next to him. If he could only find it in himself to believe in some kind of afterlife, perhaps the realization would hold more weight. Perhaps the fear of damnation would drive him to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can do better, we don’t need to kill, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but if the Assassins didn’t who would? Death is all that can stop a Templar. And more than that - how could he turn his back on the only life he’s ever known?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Altaïr murmurs. “I’ll leave you to your work.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He turns to go, but there’s the sound of a chair scraping against stone, and he stops. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait.” Malik pauses. Maybe to take a breath. “Why do you ask?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Altaïr sighs, and he doesn’t move to look at his friend. “Curiosity.” He waits to see if Malik has anything more to say, but he keeps silent, and so Altaïr makes his exit. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can understand the temptation of religion. If you abide by your God’s law you can die in good conscience. Peace of mind, he thinks, is worth more than any amount of treasure.  But too often religion is used as a smokescreen. There are few who truly see it as a means to achieve a better self, and so many who abide only out of fear of punishment. If people believed in no gods, what would keep them on a path of righteousness? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Creed acts as Altaïr’s path. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. He mutters this to himself when he can feel his common sense waning. If there are no gods, then it comes down to individuals to follow what they think is right. Despite Altaïr’s experiences with people he knows they’re capable of doing good with no consequences. Is a life of honor and peace not enough of a reward? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Templars and their method of preying upon these weaknesses only makes him angrier. They’d disguise themselves as crusaders for their Lord while trying to take away the one thing they say God gave them - free will. Although, if the Apple had been nothing other than the Piece of Eden… he isn’t sure what anything means anymore. The events with Robert de Sablé and Al Mualim have left him with more questions than he could possibly ever answer, but it has also opened his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Without those events, would he still be prideful and reckless, endangering the Brotherhood as well as himself? Or would Al Mualim actually have killed him? He can’t say he hadn’t earned it. Malik might’ve forgiven him, but the weight of everything he lost because of Altaïr’s own arrogance will haunt him til his death. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Altaïr!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He spins around in surprise. Malik is waving him over from the table and he can barely find it in himself to hesitate as he jogs back up the stairs and to the window to meet him. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get out a single word Malik is already talking.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I have something to add,” he says, dark eyes alight with a very familiar glow. “And I think I should say it now, before you have half a mind to begin sulking.” Altaïr scowls at that, but lets Malik go uninterrupted. He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>sulk. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The other tilts his head, glowering at him in that way that lets Altaïr know Malik can see exactly what he’s thinking. “The Christian God believes in justice, or so I have read. There is no sin in defense. We do not kill blindly, we only take the lives of those who threaten our own.” He clasps Altaïr’s shoulder, and the sudden contact is jarring. “You are not a bad person, Altaïr. Just because we are judged for our actions does not mean our reasons behind them mean nothing.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not for the first time, he wonders how Malik came to be so perceptive.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He raises his hand to take the other’s from off his shoulder, holding it tight for a beat before letting go. Malik’s palm is rough with use, but warm. “Thank you, Malik.” He smiles, only slightly, because it pulls awkwardly at the scar cutting through his lips. “Sometimes you are good for something.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Malik scoffs, rolling his eyes like an offended old woman, but Altaïr can see the way his mouth is trying not to twist up at the corners. “Don’t get too used to it. I would hate for you to depend on me, when I have so many better things to do.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Some days he finds himself worrying endlessly about what King Richard said. About how people come into the world screaming, and that it is what they know, what they crave. Violence is man’s state of nature. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He feels he can hardly deny it, when the Assassins cry for peace only to reach for it through murder. But is what Malik said to him enough? Does the reasoning behind something stand in equal measure with the action itself?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What an ideal world looks like to Altaïr would surely be a nightmare to others. People </span>
  <em>
    <span>must </span>
  </em>
  <span>have the freedom to choose their own lives. And yet there will always be those who make the choice to hurt others. This is inevitable. But to control everyone, to keep them from finding their own versions of peace, that would be just as cruel. The world is not as black and white as people like to make it seem. There are no easy answers - only gray ones.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>Even still, he has never heard of anyone claiming that a jackal is evil because it hunts. What isolates humanity from the rest of the world? Is it their intelligence? Are they smart enough to know</span> <span>better, to try to be better? </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s possible man’s intelligence has proven to be as much a curse as a blessing. More than possible. Intelligence leads to self awareness, which leads to existential fear, which leads to the invention of an afterlife. Perhaps this is all religion has ever been. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Altaïr wishes, at times, that he could be illusioned enough to have faith in such a thing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Assassins champion free will, and yet they dedicate themselves to a master; they cut their fingers off as a show of loyalty and servitude.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He self consciously curls his hand into a fist, feeling as his little finger and middle finger close together over the nub of what used to be between them. He can’t remember what age he was exactly when he lost it. He can barely remember how it felt for it to be there. The blade has always seemed far worth the price. Now, though, he speculates: the Brotherhood is supposed to be discrete. And yet they parade around with this physical sign of loyalty on display, they flaunt themselves in a castle - they are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>discrete. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks he’d talk about it with Malik if he hadn’t bent the other’s ear so much already. And besides, there will be time to dwell on these things. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly, he has the rest of his life staring him down. For the first time in a long time, Altaïr feels young.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He throws a rock into the gulch, watches as it splashes harmlessly into the river. It doesn’t resurface. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks he used to possess that same kind of certainty - no matter how many times he’d get thrown into the water, he’d sink. No matter how many times the Brotherhood expected better of him, he’d fail. Pride is just as terrible as drowning. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Altaïr doesn’t get up from his spot on the cliff. His legs dangle over empty air. Halfheartedly, he flicks a beetle off his arm. The river isn’t loud, but it is a hum, talking to itself and nothing else. He swipes at his eyeline in some attempt to get rid of the sweat running into it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it’s time he learned to swim. </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sun is setting.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Altaïr’s dinner sits picked over and mostly gone in an ornate ceramic bowl next to him, and he’s too indifferent to wave away the flies that are licking at the scraps. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sky is a slurry of warm violets and blues and reds, bleeding together to create a magnificent bruise. If he squints, he can just make out the north star, a white and tiny raft in the sea of colors. Malik would know its name. But Altaïr does not, so he sweeps his eyes back to the horizon, letting the tension drain out of him. If there is one place he can afford to lower his guard, it’s here. On the roof of the fortress. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He stretches his legs toward the edge of the tower, and the pain that had been snapping at his ankle since Damascus is finally silent. The injury hadn’t been his reason for taking a day to rest, but he thinks it’s a good enough sign as any that his break is over. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He trails the scar that sits mottled and rough against the outside of his missing finger, and for an instant, he wonders where they put them all. Perhaps they’re thrown into the river, or buried. Somewhere, there’s a piece of him that has died before the rest. If he could get it back, would he? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Altaïr drops his hand to lay on the other. </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am returning to the bureau in Jerusalem,” Malik says in lieu of greeting. Altaïr glances up at him for a moment, long enough to acknowledge his presence. There’s a shadow of a frown on Malik’s face, in the tightness of his eyes, so dark in the firelight. “What’s this?” He asks after Altaïr’s silence, the edge of a barb on his tongue. “No questions of explanation? No refute?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Altaïr glares at him then, but it’s driven more by exhaustion than temper. “I do not expect you to suffocate yourself here.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Malik cants his head, and had he both his arms, Altaïr guesses it’d be closer to a shrug than anything. “Fair enough.” He hesitates in the archway, one foot over the threshold, the other behind. “Before I go - there’s been gossip of Templars in the city. I can call for a novice to investigate, unless you haven’t yet grown soft.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He lifts his head from his journal to meet Malik’s eyes. There’s a challenge in them, but not an unkind one. The words remind him of when they were younger, brasher, when Kadar tagged along at their tails and Malik was whole. It makes something burn slow inside him. Something aches and twists and chafes against his ribs, something he doesn’t feel ready to name, and he can’t help the wistful half-smile that pulls at his lips. He flips the book shut. “Needing a chaperone, Malik?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The other throws his one hand up in mock praise. “Ah, the Grandmaster has a sense of humor!” He quirks a brow, and his expression gentles. “Meet me at the stables in an hour.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I will.”</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
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